Pretenses
by ladyrostova
Summary: Santana struggles with the repressed desire to take her friendship with Brittany to the next level. Drabble.


'You know I don't love you, Brittany,' Santana said, sharply, as she pulled away from the Cheerio lying underneath her. It was a lie she had to reaffirm for herself every single time she pulled away.

'I know, a kiss is not a contract,' Brittany stated, simply, eyes downcast, knot forming in her stomach that had nothing to do with nausea and everything to do with rejection. 'You don't have to explain every time.'

'Don't I?' Santana replied, bitingly, shooting her friend a gaze darkened more with annoyance than lust.

Brittany didn't say anything; she just laid there, quietly, averting her eyes from Santana's form as it drew away all the warmth that they had but moments ago shared. Her hands slid together and she laced her knuckles, dissolving into somewhat of a nervous state, as she always did after she made out with Santana.

She had a funny way of pulling Brittany out of her comfort zone.

Brittany liked it.

- - -

Santana didn't love Brittany.

Really, she didn't.

Love meant stolen glances, rushing pulses, automatic smiles, sweaty palms, whispered nothings, blushing cheeks, weak knees, and a variety of other things that she, Santana Lopez, certainly did not feel for her best friend. She didn't let herself––couldn't let herself. Messing around with Brittany was one thing. Actual feelings were another. Fuck buddies was manageable. Love was not. Touching and pleasing and unrestrained desire was something she could control, manipulate, bend to her will. But love?

Love was a whole different monster. One with which Santana was certainly not able nor ready to duel. She'd sooner take on Coach Sylvester.

Sighing, she shoved her locker door shut and slung her backpack over one shoulder, beginning her march down the hallway before she was intercepted by Puck's tongue.

'Christ, Puck, cut it out,' she shouted into his mouth, placing her palms on his chest and heaving him off her. He looked slightly perplexed as to her sudden rebuttal of his advances, but only for a moment before he sent his tongue back down her throat like a torpedo and grazed her thigh with his fingers.

She was used to this kind of treatment, but she didn't like it. Sure she used it to bash Quinn over the head a few times in some good, old-fashioned cheerleading rivalry (not that she really had that much to be concerned about now that the pregnant ninny was kicked off the squad), but did she really care anything for Puck? Did she really want to exert any ownership over him? No.

'That's not what you said last night,' Puck breathed as he nibbled on her ear. She squirmed a little underneath him, her small form squished against the wall of lockers. She felt helpless, trapped, with him.

But it was all about keeping up pretenses, so she moaned as if she enjoyed it and even managed a fairly convincing smile.

'Last night I had a little warning,' she countered, pulling away from him. He would let her go this time, recognizing that she was teasing him.

She walked away, swinging her hips, and he stared after, hungrily, lips still red and swollen from the rough contact with hers. She tightened her grip on her backpack, turned a corner, and the hips stopped swiveling, and the accomplished smile evaporated.

This is how she played the game.

- - -

Santana was standing alone in her bedroom, staring at the spot on the bed that Brittany's body had left before she'd seen her out the door, a few minutes ago. She wasn't being a hopeless romantic. She wasn't being sentimental. She wasn't being creepy. She wasn't being pathetic. She wasn't being––_anything_, okay? She was just reaching out her hand, splayed searchingly, and laying it on the imprint, her fingertips tingling as they meet with the faint traces of warmth that still lingered there.

She wasn't in love with her best friend.

Shaking her head and sending her glossy ponytail shivering across the back of her neck, Santana recoiled her hand as if it had been subject to a snake bite. Distraction. Distraction. She glided over to her dresser, where she proceeded to divert her thoughts by pulling out her favorite silk nightgown in preparation for bed; an empty bed.

How she would be able to sleep with Brittany's sickeningly sweet perfume all over her fucking mattress, she didn't know.

After she'd slipped into her nightgown and undone her hair, Santana sat on the edge of her bed and checked her phone messages. Puck, Puck, and Puck. She sighed. Can you say, desperate? God, the boy needed a damned booty call every night this week so far. She rolled her eyes and texted back, 'sure. meet me at the door in five.'

Pretenses.

- - -

'Santana, what if I love you?'

She froze. 'What the hell kind of question is that, Brittany?'

They were in Brittany's room, giggling over past yearbooks like they did when their self-esteem was feeling particularly run-down after an intense practice with Coach Sylvester, and suddenly Brittany had just stopped laughing and looked at Santana with this strange, meaningful gaze that only occurred very rarely with Brittany, and said it.

Santana tried to stop her heart from jumping right out of her chest. 'Brittany, you don't love me,' she answered, simply. 'You can't.'

'Oh,' she replied, the smile dying from her face. 'Is it because I promised myself to Ken last week that I can't love you? I'm sorry about that, by the way. It was just one of the spur-of-the-moment things.'

She rolled her eyes. Sometimes, she didn't know why she put up with her. Santana was an extremely intelligent, manipulative little temptress, and Brittany... well, Brittany was cute.

And that was just about all she had going for her.

But to that end, she almost needed Santana's influence. They almost needed each other. Perhaps that was why they were still so close, after all these years. Brittany mellowed Santana and Santana... well, she educated Brittany. As well as she could. Obviously it was a full time job. But it was one for which Santana was well-suited; one which she daresay she enjoyed. And, in the faint recesses of her subconscious, she knew Brittany enjoyed it too. She just didn't allow herself to think about that. Couldn't allow herself to think about that, and what it might mean. For them both.

'No, it isn't because you promised your hand to a fruity looking Malibu Ken doll, Brittany,' Santana finally said, with a touch of exasperation.

But then why, Santana? her subconscious questioned her, gnawingly. Why not?

She knew there wasn't a real reason why. But Brittany didn't know that, and it was easy to lie to her.

'Why not, Sant––?'

'Because you just can't, okay?' she snarled, defensively, her body snapping upright and off the bed. 'It would ruin us, Britt.'

She suddenly needed there to be as much distance between them as possible.

'Sorry, Santana,' came Brittany's sullen reply as she gathered the yearbooks and set them down on her bookshelf (filled with stuffed animals, dolls, and the occasional coloring book). She didn't really know what else to say.

Sometimes it was just best to remain quiet when Santana was in one of her moods. Brittany had learned a lot over the years, and this was one of the keys to success in her book. So she went back, sat down on her bed, and unbuttoned her flannel pajama top.

After a silence, 'Wanna make out?'

A smile flickered Santana's lips in spite of herself.

'Always.'

She didn't love Brittany.

Really, she didn't.


End file.
